


the dying light

by izabellwit



Category: RWBY
Genre: Atlas Academy, Gen, I couldn't do it okay I couldn't just one-shot-kill the boy im not strong enough for that, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Possible Character Death, Post-Volume 7 (RWBY), Prompt Fic, Self-Sacrifice, Sharing a Body, Spoilers: Volume 7 (RWBY), Up In The Air - Freeform, Volume 7 (RWBY)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: Fic Request: Ozcar sacrificing themselves while fighting Salem to save Qrow?
Relationships: Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Comments: 11
Kudos: 112





	the dying light

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt was lovely for multiple reasons, because there's nothing I want more than for Oscar & Oz to have to fight Salem face-to-face, if only for the drama. On the other hand, I NEVER want them to fight Salem, cause... imminent death. SUCH a possibility.

It is luck, and luck alone that saves Oscar—the dying screams of a distant Hunter, and the cold snap of awful, familiar magic in the air. Even before Oz goes cold and terrified in his head, Oscar is already hiding, pressing himself flat against the wall of an alley-way, his breath frozen in his throat, his heart cold and still in his chest. The screams cut off, abrupt— and there is nothing, after that. But they still know it’s her.

 _Salem,_ Oz whispers, thin and hollow and dreading, with all they are, and Oscar takes in a deep breath and has to force himself to exhale. “Will she know…?”

 _In every life._ There is grief in Oz’s voice. Rage. The weight of memory presses down on them, hundreds of lives, meeting Salem’s eyes and seeing her face twist in a snarl. _Every time. She always knows._

Jinn’s story, Oscar thinks. When the second incarnation and the changed Salem had reunited— they’d known first glance who the other had been, without ever having to say a word. The thing that had once seemed like destiny to the Ozma and Salem of the past has now, _apparently_ , become just yet another tool for Salem to use against them. 

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. The cane is white-knuckled in his hand, and his grip is so tight it aches, the small carved designs in the cane’s handle imprinting on his palm through the gloves. Oh, gods, he thinks. Oh gods.

 _Oscar._ Some of the panic has faded from Oz’s voice; he speaks sharp and steady. _We need to run._

Oscar thinks back to their only warning—that Hunter’s dying scream, and gods, it's awful, it's terrible, how frightened must they have been?—and tries to steady himself. “I can fight,” he whispers back, and draws on that bravery, the memory of bravery, the knowledge that if he runs now, someone else will surely suffer in their place. “I can—”

 _We aren’t strong enough._ Oz’s tone brooks no argument; something thin and frightened strains his voice, and it is this more than anything else that shakes Oscar silent. He can feel Oz’s fear as vivid as his own, his rage like a second heartbeat, and that is familiar to him—but to hear it, too? There is something frightening about it that Oscar can’t quite explain, something horrifying about Oz, always composed, now shocked to stumbling by the mere presence of the woman stalking the streets behind them. _Oscar, I—I understand your thoughts, believe me, but we cannot— we will lose. We have to go._ **_Now._ **

Oscar’s lips press thin. He tightens his grip on the cane and squeezes his eyes shut. “Right,” he murmurs, and when he opens his eyes again, his expression is set and determined, jaw clenched. In this they are decided—in this they are together. “Let’s go.”

And he takes one step out of hiding, one step out prepared to run—when he hears, high above and sharp as a blade, the sudden cawing of a crow.

Ice chills down their spine. Oscar snaps their head back, breath strangling in their throat. Oz’s horror, Oscar’s sudden spike of fear—Atlas is too high, too cold, too icy for birds such as those, which means—it can only be—

_He doesn’t know Salem is here!_

He must not. Because then Oscar can hear, in the distance, her voice faint but amused and her fury like a spark: “Ah. Ozpin’s little pet spy.”

_No!_

It is not just Oz who lunges forward. It is not just Oscar. It is the both of them—Oz, because Qrow is a friend and he has seen so many die; Oscar, to whom Qrow is almost a mentor, who is Ruby’s uncle and beloved and will be missed—and in this second the danger is forgotten to them, is unknown, is lost beneath the sharp spike of fear and faded memory, the lives and friends Salem has already taken away.

The world blurs—pinpoints—focuses on a singular point. Oscar takes their cane in hand and swings, the taste of ozone burning bitter on their tongue, lightning crackling in the air. They see Salem for only a moment—different from Oz’s memory, black veins lining her face and blood all the way up on her arm, burning eyes wide and briefly startled—and then they see her snarl.

Her hand snaps out. Red burns around her, liquid light, absorbing the blow of Oz’s magic and pushing her back only a few feet. A distant curse; a shout rising over the wind—Qrow. They’d diverted her attention just in time—the blow she’d meant for him had become her shield, and now Qrow is out of range. They weren’t too late.

But the red light fades and Salem still stands, and Oscar thinks— _Oh,_ Oz whispers, _Oh, no._

“ _Ozma,_ ” Salem says. 

_Run. Run!_

But there is nowhere to go, and they take that in at the same time, the same sinking feeling.

There is a red building at Salem’s fingertips. A bloody cast to her fury. The world seems to warp under her power, under her will—and she has never given anything away. She has never drained her power, not even a little; no gifts to four maidens, no vaults to maintain. She is as powerful as she was millennia ago, that first clash—that second death. 

_I’m sorry,_ Oz whispers, and he sounds horrified.

“It’s okay,” Oscar says, and he grips the cane in his hand and lets the green light try to shield him, and thinks—even if it's the end, at least he didn’t die running away. 

Qrow is safe. Ruby and the others haven’t lost anyone else. At this moment, Oscar thinks, that choice— _don’t regret it._

_I—_

Someone, somewhere, is shouting. Not just Qrow. Jaune? Ruby? The others? He doesn’t know—if it matters, if it means something, if they’ll even reach him in time. He almost hopes they don't. What if they get hit instead?

But whether this is the end or not, Oscar doesn’t care. He grits his teeth and glares at her across the way; doesn’t flinch when the magic starts to burn at him, the edges of his hair, the ends of his coat. He meets her gaze and holds it.

And to Salem, he says, voice hard: “My name,” as the light builds, as the world screams, as Salem snarls— “is _Oscar_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> But Iza, you might be thinking, weren't you supposed to for-sure kill the boy? Maybe. But it's finals week and I AM weak, so. No. OPEN ENDINGS IT IS
> 
> In my secret heart of hearts, I imagine Ruby semblance bee-lined across the battlefield and tackled him to safety, while the whole dang battlefield had a collective heart attack. Because Salem doesn't GET nice things, like killing her arch-enemy yet again. No sir. Not in my fics. 
> 
> [If you wanna rec this fic, you can reblog it here!!](https://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/617136967970406400/if-youre-still-taking-prompts-ozcar-sacrificing) Also, if you have any questions or just want to talk, [my tumblr](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open!!
> 
> Any thoughts?


End file.
